


Pounded in the Butt by My Own Imagination (and eventually my hot team mate)

by Rainbow Smite (apathys_whore)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: A little angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Smut, I know you're there Ryan you better fucking read this, M/M, Wade fantasizing about Cable doing stuff to his butt, in a sex way, kink meme fill, references to masturbation?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathys_whore/pseuds/Rainbow%20Smite
Summary: Wade accidentally starts to write his own freaky friend fiction about Cable.  Sometimes life is just weird like that.Fill for a kink meme where Wade writes his own fanfiction about him and Cable.





	1. snack pack attack

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of signed up to fill a prompt in an ativan haze and I decided I'm sticking with it. I'm posting prematurely because I crave approval and I need a direct line to my email of people yelling at me to finish this. This was the prompt: "Deadpool has a massive crush on Cable. He gets bored one day and mulls over said crush and just...starts writing fanfiction. About them. Together.
> 
> Cable finds out, because Deadpool forgot to close the file full of fanfic one day that he was working on.
> 
> Turns out...Cable has a crush on him too, which leads to fun sexy times."

It all started with six bags of jalapeno chips and twelve bags of those Lindt milk chocolate truffles.  The salty brought out the sweet brought out the spicy brought out the savory. It weirdly worked. It was _comfort_ food, okay?  And if anybody needed comfort, it was Wade.  He earned that zesty sodium bomb by god.

  


Yup. Just Wade kicking it all by his lonesome on Tuesday afternoon in the tiny shoebox apartment he’d rented. Since the last one had met with a fiery demise and all.  It was tiny but still habitable, seeing as he hadn’t had time to completely wreck it yet. Plain white walls and plain white carpet. Single window in white trim. No blood stains slopped onto the clinical polyester beneath his feet, no posters or pictures or bullet holes or sharpie drawings on the eggshell white walls. Nothing to break up that eerie static vacuum of space but the chip bags, Ikea furniture, and guns. All that white empty made him feel like he was in an institution and wasn’t that just a little uncomfortable?  This new place needed a personal touch. Something that screamed WADE WILSON LIVES HERE, he thought crunching down on a chip. Or at least paint the walls. Maybe seafoam green. Or electric pink. Something bright and happy. Something to help with his selfcare comfort mission. What did he need comforting about? Something about paint? Oh fuck yes the snacks were working. He unwrapped three truffles rapid fire and shoved them all in his mouth in a show of victory, practically unhinging his jaw to squish them between his back teeth. Thank god a plan was finally coming to fruition. It was about damn time something worked out for him. He stretched, languid and slow, bowing his spine backwards and enjoying the pop pop pop the joints made.

  


Relief seeped into him like the warm, full body embrace of a hot bath. A misty, bone deep soothing that lulled you into a hazy sort of contented calm. When was the last time he'd had a bath? Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd had a shower? That was definitely something he needed to do in the near future. Oh wait...

  


Future.

  


That was where Cable was from.

  


That stupid short grumpy asshole who'd done the nicest (and arguably meanest) most stupidly self sacrificing thing anyone had ever done for Wade. And what was Wade doing with that heroic sacrifice? Eating junk food and sulking by himself. The man gave up his wife and daughter for him and this is what he chose to do?  This was how he chose to thank him? A nauseous wave of self loathing and indigestion rolled over him. Maybe the snacks were a bad idea after all.

  


Okay so this situation probably didn’t start with the snacks. But everything has to start somewhere, so why not start with something relatable? Like trying to eat away your very sexual feelings about your hot new team mate and the gnawing guilt about betraying your dead fiance/never baby mama?

  


So really it was less about the chips and more about his guilt boner. His stupid, massive, powerful guilt boner of ultimate betrayal. Top ten anime betrayals and all of them were his dick.

  


Wade shoved his head into his stupid Ikea couch cushions and groaned with the frustrations (sexual and not) of a million teenage boys with rage boners. Okay so it was mostly sexual. He was adult enough to admit that at least. Just like he was adult enough to admit he had no idea why there was an upturned box of Nerds between his couch cushions. The purple ones. When was the last time he'd had those? He hadn't even had this couch that long! This is why he missed 'Ness so god damn much. She always made sure to keep the candy cleared out of the various nooks and carnies of various pieces of furniture and boyfriends. Also he missed her because, y'know, he loved her more than he'd ever loved anything in the world and she made him be a better person and believed that he had more worth than just an unkillable meat shield. She'd given him so much more than he had ever dared to ask, had ever thought somebody like him could deserve. And now he had nothing.

  


Nothing but nasty mystery couch candy and a guilty erection for an angry partially metal dwarf.

  


“This is so sad. Alexa, play Despacito,” he groaned, face still buried in the couch. Wade was only met with deafening silence. He really needed to get an Alexa before that meme was dead. Afterwards he was pretty sure he could use it to torture Jeff Bezos by making it listen to him crysterbate. Take that, capitalist pig.

  


Daintily he flicked his tongue out to scoop up some of linty couch candy. He was too depressed to move his arms and he probably didn’t deserve to anyway. The candy tasted exactly as bad as he thought it would and he that was probably what he deserved. Maybe he should mark this down as a new low.

  


Fuck. So clearly eating his feelings wasn't helping. New plan then. Which would be hard (heh, hard). He didn't make plans so much as he just started doing things and hoped it all worked out. So far very mixed results with that. Maybe he could make this a learning experience for himself then.

  


Okay. How did people normally make plans? Writing things down probably. He could do that. He'd write the shit out of a plan!  Put his surprisingly good Canadian public education to good use for once! Wade felt a bit of the guilt and self loathing start to dissipate; its shadow in his mind creep back just the the smallest bit.  Maybe self improvement… could lead to feeling better?? Did people know about this? Maybe telling the world about his scientific discovery should be on his list. Okay! Fuck yes, second wind! Wade sprang up from the couch, leaving behind the mystery candy and hopefully his depression to look for something to write on and something to write with.

  


He was pretty sure he had some paper in the bedroom.

  


Turned out he didn’t.  He’d checked under the bed, between the mattress and the boxspring, the nightstand, air vent, the box of sex toys, and the closet.  Nothing. Not a scrap of paper to be had. Not even an old receipt or a glitter gel pen. Absolutely tragic. Okay, kitchen then. Except this new place wasn’t that big so he was pretty sure if there’d been even a shred of paper there he’d have know.  The only paper in his possession he could think of were takeout menus and god knows he wasn’t going to sacrifice those even for the promise of self improvement.  He  _needed_ those tacos.

 

He was coming to the horrifying conclusion that the only paper he had was toilet paper and with the way his night was turning out he was beginning to doubt he even had that. Which was concerning considering the amount of chips he’d just eaten.  He needed to make a shopping list. Or he would, if he had any fucking paper. How did a grown man not have a single piece of paper? Maybe he could go old world and write stuff down on a broken piece of clay pottery. Except he didn’t have that either.  Maybe he should order some clay pottery. At least he knew where his laptop was aannndd oh shit! Laptops have word processors don’t they? The ultimate clay pottery fragment. Unlimited paper. Fuck yes, third wind time! Racing back to the living room and vaulting over and onto the couch, he snatched his laptop from the coffee table. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious he should have started there but eh, c'est la vie.

  


Boot that shit up!

  


Password: Deadpool69420

  


“Hacker voice: we’re in.”

  


Now he just needed to find where microsoft word was hidden in this damn thing,

  


An hour later, some light web browsing, and porn watching (with a quick trip to the sex toy box), he installed and opened up Open Office.  Same thing.


	2. everything is bad still but it sort of get's better because art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing folks: I am normally an avant garde horror/angst writer and I've just been working that niche for like the last ten years. So writing something that's outside that box is kinda hard for me apparently. As such some of my normal angst style leaks through because I have 0 self control. But only for like 2 paragraphs and then it gets fun and sexy finally.

Okay. List time.

 

1\. jucfhidaw  


So that wasn't a word. Just a quick key smash to get the juices flowing. Rome wasn't built in a day. Maybe a font change would help? What font was he using? Arial? Boring! What he needed was something that screamed serious. Times new Roman? No. They would be expecting that. Were font names proper nouns? Did he have to capitalize them? Maybe if they were like, the ones you had to pay for? He'd heard that was a thing. Why would you need that? There was like one hundred fonts that were free and already there. Fuck now he had to google it.

 

NO! No. Okay. So number one should probably be stop getting distracted.

  


  1. Stop getting distracted.




Still Arial font. He really wasn't feeling that. He needed something fancy. Something that people would take seriously.  


Edwardian script itc?  It looked like the font they wrote the constitution with and there was no way he could read that. Like at all. Why the fuck was it so tiny? Who wants that?  


Informal Roman? Absolutely not. Modern no. 20. Oh, very vintage. Very type writer. But it was called modern and it decidedly was not. That would irritate the shit out of him and he'd never get anything done. Poor Richard. No. It reminded him of something and he couldn't place what and that would just end up distracting him. Which was literally number one on his list of things to work on. Jesus why did this have to be so hard (he said hard again, nice). Concentrating had never been his strong suit, but he used to be able to manage it in combat situations. Probably due to survival instinct or something. Then he got his healing power so concentration hadn't been such a big issue. His brain had promptly thrown that learned behavior out. Most likely to make room for more poor decision making. Why did his brain have to be such a fucking trash fire all the time? Probably the child abuse and cancer. And various other traumatic moments. Damn it. He really wasn't getting anywhere with this list.  


Wade set the laptop aside for a moment, feeling defeated and lethargic. He just wanted to curl up in sad little ball and sleep until life doesn't feel like it's trying to crush him. That shouldn't be too much to ask, but he knows it is. Not once has the bullshit ever let up for one fucking second; not one god damn minute of reprieve for Wade. Suffering gives way to fighting, gives way to more suffering, gives way to fighting once again in a mobius strip of shit. Every curve he thinks he rounds he ends up back where he started. Never a moment of fulfillment, never a stagger point to catch his breath, never a second where he's allowed to just _be_. Forced to always be rushing headlong and frenetic into the next objective hoping against hope it would finally be what let him rest. But it doesn't. It just takes takes takes. Takes his childhood, takes his career, takes his health, takes his looks, takes Vanessa. Wouldn't even let him die. And now his black hole of a life is so big it's starting to suck down other's happiness too. Cable gave up a wife and _child_ to shove him back into this shit and he doesn't know if he resents him for it or not.  


He lays there, listless, lost in his own morass of depression and frustration for what seems like hours. Or maybe it was just a few minutes. Time gets kinda fuzzy when he's in one of his funks. The sun is setting; its fading rays spill in from the window, bile yellow light falling into his living room, highlighting the dust as it drifts aimlessly through the air. He glaces outside. The rim of the world is glowing ember orange, color darkening to bruise purple at the dome. The whole panorama is dotted with streaky smeary wisps of clouds backlight and glowing cotton candy pink from the fading sun. The sprawling city catches the glint and gleam as well, glass and steel glow gem fire prismatic in the waning light.  


He should probably think all of this is pretty. Or moving. Or life affirming. But he's seen it before. Too many times, more times than he'd actually wanted to if he was being honest. The interplay of light and city life has ceased to affect him beyond a vague acknowledgment of the passage of time. Which he apparently has too much of. Too much time to lay around and feel sorry for himself.

 

Maybe stop feeling sorry for yourself should be number 2 on his list. Is he even making a list still? He probably should, right? He sort of started one. Self affirmation or actualization or something. That seemed vague and new age enough that it could mean anything he wants it to mean. Okay, take two. Grab the computer again. Font was unimportant. That had been a test. That he had failed. But now he had seen the error of his ways and was ready to just use arial font like everybody else.

  


  1. Stop getting distracted

  2. Stop feeling sorry for yourself

  3.  




So what was 3? Stop being so horny for Cable? Now hold on a minute. There was nothing wrong with a little rub and tug along with some lube and shove. Maybe start with stop being romantically inclined towards him. Very different things. Then he could work his way up to not being so horny for him. Incremental. Reasonable. Besides, how long could he possibly stay horny for him before it got boring? How long could he be obsessed with his stupid good hair? When did he even have time to get his backcomb so fucking perfectly jelled? Not a single salt and pepper strand out of place. Illegal. Or his fucking buff arms that looked they could keep you safe through a nuclear apocalypse. Not that Wade needed protecting but it was nice to think that someone _would_ protect him. Not to mention Cable had that _good_ 5 o'clock shadow too. Wade wanted to run his cheek against it like a kitty cat and get all up in those prickles. Or when he foccused that intense stare on you and made you feel like you were the only person who existed in the world. Like you had his undivided attention and he was gonna show you exactly what he thought of you. And he wanted him to shove that whole metal arm up his ass.

 

Okay **thirst alert.** He needed to dial it back to at most like a 6. That seemed reasonable. So like, just a few fingers in his ass. Index and middle finger. All shiny and dripping with lube.

 

And he'd totally be like, “You think you deserve it?” With that raspy voice.

 

And he would be like, “please please I've been so good!” And Cable would circle his slick index finger around his asshole slowly and teasingly, prodding but never actually penetrating him.  


“I don't know, Wade. You don't seem like you've been a good boy. Sulking around all day trying not to think of me. Does that sound to you like something a good boy would do?” And he would lean in and lick around his ear with his hot tongue. “Do you think I should give you a spanking? For being a bad boy then lying about it?”

 

“Anything! Please! Just give me _something_!”

 

“All right, we'll start with 10. Don't lose count.” And he'd feel the _crack_ as Cable's hand met exposed flesh. Sharp and stinging but somehow thrilling.

 

“One,” he'd croak out. And Cable would just keep on, making sure Wade never lost count. His ass would be burning hot and sore by the time they got to ten.

 

“All right, you made it through your punishment. Now, what was it that you so desperately wanted before?”

 

“Fingers,” he'd rasp out.

 

“Fingers? You're going to have to be more specific than that, Wade. My fingers or yours? Is there something you want me to do with them?”

 

“Yours. Inside me, please!”  


Then he'd totally do that hot huffing chuckle that super masculine guys always did and tease him because he was an asshole like that. “Where do you want my fingers? Ears, mouth, nose?”  


And Wade would just be so rock fucking hard and begging for it. “In my ass, _please!”_ And then he'd finally feel those metal fingers sink into him, spreading him open forcefully, making him feel that painful but so fucking _good_ burn as they searched for his prostate.  


“Is this what you wanted?"

 

And damn he would hardly be able to make his mouth work as moaned an enthusiastic yes. “You can come on just my fingers, can't you Wade? Somebody trained you well, didn't they? I bet I'd hardly have to touch you and you'd fucking cum for me, wouldn't you?” And the whole time he was talking he'd be working him open, curving those thick metal fingers to rub his prostate just right, changing up the speed and pressure and the pattern; going in gentle circles then pressing down _hard_. And he'd just be shoving his ass back against those fingers the whole time taking as much as Cable was willing to give him. So close but not allowed to finish, wailing and whining, absolutely _begging_ to cum from having his ass played with. And finally after an eternity of teasing him he'd just go for it, fingers slamming his prostate hard, making Wade scream and almost sob. "Please lemme cum please please please!"

 

“Alright, you impatient slut. Go ahead and cum.” And god he absolutely would. Steaks of cum painting his stomach as his prostate was milked for all it was worth.  


Two things occurred to Wade at that point. The first being that he was rock hard. The second was that he had typed almost five hundred words of...let's call it medium core smut into his word document about how he wanted to be finger blasted to the center of the earth.

 

So on one hand, he had actually typed _something_. And that had to count in his favor. But it wasn't even close to what he had actually intended to write. Like maybe the exact opposite in fact. But on the other hand it was probably like, healthy or something. Like art therapy. Only instead of drawing like, a little kid crying next to a box of whole wheat toast or something he wrote porn. And honestly who wants to see some shitty “art” when porn was an option? Wasn't creating art just an extension of masturbation anyway? Yeah. This was probably okay. Now where had he stashed that lube? Probably next to the mysterious couch candy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's not super detailed hardcore smut but I figure because it's his brain accidentally vomiting it onto a word processor it's cool if the first dose is more off the cuff you know?  
> More private fantasy than a detailed scenario. I'll do that though I swear. 
> 
> Also, somebody please come talk about Venture Brothers with me! Especially 21! Because he's perfect and I love him. Also I wanna talk about my theory that Blue Morpho was a trans man! Here's my tumblr there's nothing but shit posts right now but it doesn't have to be that way! 
> 
> http://rainbow-smite.tumblr.com/


End file.
